Scooby Snacks
by intriKate
Summary: After Buffy's death, Dawn doubts about her realness return, and she turns to Spike for reassurance. Set between seasons five and six.


_There once was a writer named Joss,_

_Who was Buffy the Vampire Slayer's boss,_

_But Whedon's not me,_

_I was beta'd by **notfadeaway616,**_

_And fanfic assuages my loss._

* * *

"Spike, tell me horrible stories." Dawn sat, cross-legged, on the couch, and painted blue sparkles over the green nail polish she had just allowed to dry. She had had to re-paint three of her nails after she had brushed them against the gauze bandage on her arm; she had tripped on some steps the day before and sliced a long gash in her right forearm when she swiped it across the broken edge of a railing. Her babysitter looked on in vague contempt of her color coordination, and picked at his own polish. Dawn had innocently asked him earlier if he wanted a French manicure; disbelieving eyebrows and a feral growl had been the result, causing her to giggle madly for the next five minutes.

"Horrible stories, Bit?" Spike asked, and inspected the white tips on his nails.

"Like the ones you used to tell me. When I would sneak out of the house."

"Oh, those." He turned off the television. "Well, once, there was this young girl, just a tad older than you, that I had my eye on one time. This was back in London, just after I had died." Spike continued to weave the story, telling in great gory detail how he picked off the girl's friends one bye one, leaving her to face him all alone. Dawn shuddered in morbid delight. "And when drained her dry as whatever that bloody dessert is you have around here, I took my knife, and chopped" –here he made slashing hand gestures- "her head clean off. Didn't want her rising again," he finished.

"I'm hungry," Dawn announced, changing the subject as she so very often did. Waving at her nail polish one last time to dry it, she hopped off the couch and walked towards the kitchen. Spike followed her.

"Bloodthirsty, is what you are," he muttered. Still, he admired it. There were very few humans who could appreciate his artful tales; or, at the very least, few so small and cute and scrumptious-looking.

"Wish there was something decent to eat around here," he complained, looking around the kitchen and seeing the bread, the bowl of fruit, and the cereal. "A Swedish lingerie model would hit the spot nicely." He shrugged, and made his way to the refrigerator. Maybe there would be something worthwhile in there.

"I bet you don't ever think of eating _me_," Dawn pouted.

With exasperation, Spike turned to glance at her before returning to his rummagings. "Of course I do, pet! Why do you think I call you Nibblet and Little Bit and all that? This bloody chip wasn't in my head, I'd drain you in two shakes."

"Spike, what's it like being a vampire?" She climbed up on the counter and sat on the edge. Spike sorted through the refrigerator, and wondered if he had left a packet of blood in the vegetable crisper. It appeared not.

"You're dead, for starters. And sunbathing just doesn't have the same charm. Do we have any hot wings leftover?"

"I ate them all." She didn't notice the disbelieving look of horror Spike shot her as she continued, "What's it like when you drink someone's blood? I want details. Lots of details." Dawn wiggled, and grinned at him.

"Bloody odd one you are. Almost as bad as Dru." He shrugged when Dawn pouted again. "Alright, Bit, you want details?" Spike ran his fingers through his platinum hair. "You see a little bint, yea high-" he motioned about Dawn's head level- "and when she sees you, sees your vamp face, she starts running and that makes you happy 'cos you like your blood nice and warmed up. You catch her, and put your teeth in her neck, and her skin goes 'pop!' when your teeth go through. Then you start sucking out her blood faster than her heart pumps it out, and it tastes pretty damn good 'cos she's so afraid and that makes those adreni-whatsits in her blood turn it really sweet and salty. Like kettle corn. Either she faints from fear or blood loss, but time comes she falls down and you have to hold her up to keep feeding." He licked his lips without appearing to notice. "All this talking's making me a bit peckish. Anway, so she's really light, because all of her blood's gone. You know when she's all dried out because when you suck, it feels like sucking the last of your milkshake through a straw." His look dared Dawn to protest, but she didn't, even though her eyes were wide and fascinated. "You plannin' on being a master vampire, pet?"

"Just wonderin'." Dawn swung her legs, but she didn't say anything more, so Spike turned back and started investigating the freezer, in the small possibility of miniature frozen pizzas.

"Spike?"

"_Yes_, pet?"

"Will you drink my blood?"

Spike whipped his head out of the freezer. "_What did you say?_" he said, his voice low.

"Well, Angel and the Master and Dracula and… well, probably somebody else all drank Buffy's blood, and its not like vampires are an uncommon occurrence around here, and… and everybody _always_ doesn't want me to find out anything and I wanted to know what it's like."

"A little tip, bit- If you want to live very long here in Sunnyhell, don't walk up to vampires and ask them to drink your blood."

"I _know_," said Dawn impatiently. "But you're not vampires, you're Spike. You wouldn't hurt me."

"I _can't_ hurt you, pet. I got this sodding chip." He lightly slapped her leg, and slapped his palm to the side of his head in response to the immediate pain. "Bugger! See?"

"You _won't_ hurt me just because you promised Buffy you'd take care of me before she died."

"Yeah, and that too, luv." He tipped his head to the side. "No chip, though, and I would ha' killed you both before promising that, though."

"Yup, Buffy and Mom and me would be dead and gross. I know."

"That's good." Spike was emphatic.

"You still didn't say whether you would drink my blood or not."

Spike blew out the breath he didn't need. "I am not going to- ehh…" He trailed off when he turned to find, in his face, Dawn's arm, gauze removed and Dawn picking at the scab. Blood glistened on her skin, and he moved towards her arm, yearning to put his mouth to it. Then he pulled himself back. "Bit, you wrap that up. Now. Don't want it getting infected, do we?"

Dawn angrily half sighed, half squealed, and crossed her arms across her chest, careful to avoid bleeding on the fabric. "You think I'd taste gross!"

"I do not!" Spike poked the wound with his finger, then licked the blood off it. Intent as he was on not tasting it, not luring himself towards impossible meals, he still felt it burn down his throat and had to suppress a shiver of delight. "See? You taste fine. Go put your bandage back on."

She scowled at him, and snorted resentfully. "No!"

"Bit…" he warned.

"Why does it matter? It's not like I'm real!"

"Of course you're real! You're _really _annoying me!" He threw his hands up, and they stood glaring at each other for a long moment.

"I'm only here cause some stupid monks wanted Buffy to protect the Key. Now she's dead and I'm worthless and me, Dawn, was never more than a bunch of fake memories anyway!" Dawn was snarling by the time she came to the end of her speech; the roughness in her voice drew Spike's attention to the tears in her eyes.

Spike tilted his head to look at his young charge. Though he would be the last to claim brilliant intuition, he was developing a hunch. "Pet, why do you want me to drink your blood?"

One tear spilled down towards her chin. "You can tell me if I'm real," she squeaked. "What if I'm just like cotton candy, Spike? Like, you taste me but in a second there's nothing there because cotton candy isn't real food." Spike nodded, and the corners of Dawn's frown turned slightly upward, grateful. She let out an apologetic laugh. "I've been thinking about this a lot."

"I can see that, luv."

She started to back away. "Sorry. I shouldn't have- I have to go do-" Dawn broke off, and, turning, walked towards the dining room.

"Little bit?" called Spike. Dawn paused, but didn't turn around. "If you really want me to do this, I will. It's your decision." Dawn turned, then, and nodded, unable to speak. "Go get some of your gauze," Spike told her. "And that chocolate you have stashed in your nightstand," he added.

Dawn spun, and ran up the stairs, creating vibrations through the house that reminded one of elephants. Spike sat heavily on a stool, and wondered what he had just gotten himself into. For the first time, he found himself intensely grateful the Slayer was dead. If she found out he had fed on her sister, she would find ways far worse than a staking to deal with him.

But then, if Buffy wasn't dead, they wouldn't be having this conversation.

He knew Dawn was as real as any human, despite having only been around for a few months and having a less-than-traditional conception. Anytime he hurt her he found himself groping at his head for a way to rip it off and stop hurting, and that really proved it. But he had heard about what happened last time she questioned her humanity. She had nearly killed herself, and he wasn't about to allow her a second go at it.

The elephantine steps returned. Dawn threw a giant zip-lock bag full of cotton gauze pads on the counter, and reverently laid the chocolate down next to it. "Why do we need chocolate?"

"To get your energy back after," Spike said shortly. "Pet, you'd better be sure of this."

"I am." Dawn swept her hair up, and displayed her neck. "Okay." She took a deep breath. "I'm ready."

"Oh, no," stated Spike. "That's one thing that's not happening. The Scoobies see teeth marks on your neck? Not going to end in puppy dogs and ice cream for me, luv." He told the mental images that involved her bare neck and his teeth and silk bedsheets (after a fleeting beautiful manly moment) to sod the hell off. "Show me your arm."

Dawn held it out for inspection. The blood from before was beginning to coagulate. "That needs to be opened up more. Go soak it with hot water."

"Can't you just bite it?"

"I thought you wanted me to drink you, not roll around on the kitchen all night with a bloody migraine. Soak that scab off."

When Dawn had complied, the gash was bleeding freely. The railing had torn through all her layers of skin, right down to the muscle. At least Spike wouldn't be giving her an additional scar. The kids at school speculated enough about her scars as it was.

Spike had dragged a dining room chair into the kitchen, and he led her to it. He slipped a towel under her elbow just before she rested it on the armrest.

"Little bit, when you start getting dizzy or blacking out, you need to tell me right away," he warned.

"I know," Dawn insisted.

"And don't-"

"Be afraid? I _know_."

"Actually?" he said, smirking, "You should be afraid. You shouldn't be getting vamps to suck your blood. Ask Mister G.I. Finn that used to hang about." He gently held her wrist in one hand, her elbow in the other, and looked at her. She nodded, and Spike could see that there was a small amount of fear in her eyes. He was about to quip that now she'd taste even better, but he changed his mind. "Here we go, pet."

Dawn froze the involuntary shudder that threatened her when Spike lowered his mouth to her wound. His lips pressed against her skin. They were cold. The edges of her cut were pulled about as he began to suck on her blood, taking small swallows at first but soon gulping as her circulation responded to his ministrations. She felt lightheaded, and closed her eyes. The sucking immediately ceased.

"Bit? How are you doing?" The question was stern, but there was a tiny quaver in his tone. Dawn opened her eyes and smiled. Blood dribbled from the corner of Spike's mouth; he wiped it away with the back of his hand, then licked it.

"I'm fine," she lied. "It's okay. You can keep going." He hesitated. "Spike, that was just a taste. Cotton candy, remember?"

"I remember," he replied.

The vampire returned to her arm. He struggled to keep from attempting to drain her completely; her blood, which he had heard rumors was the same as Buffy's, was even more exquisite than that Chinese slayer. After nearly two years where the freshest blood he could get was from a nosebleed, Spike felt his thoughts fleeing away in the face of such incredible pleasure. His features shifted back and forth between demonic protrusions and his human countenance; he instinctively tried to tear the cut farther open with his teeth, but stopped at a warning twinge in his head. He glanced up at his young charge, saw her eyes closed, and stopped drinking, though he didn't move his mouth from her arm. He knew he had taken nearly a pint. "Keep going," Dawn ground out.

Spike slowed from the pace he had been drinking from her, going from ravenously gulping to lapping the blood away as it pooled on her skin. The bleeding slowed- he was no longer sucking it out; eventually it stopped flowing. "Take more," Dawn urged, and he hoped it wasn't just his imagination. "Take it all."

Alarmed at her request, and more than a little rueful at his sentimental reaction, he immediately pulled back. "I'm done," he stated. It came out muffled. He swallowed his mouthful. "I'm not taking any more."

Dawn opened her eyes. "Please," she said weakly. "I have to be sure. You can take more."

"I can't," replied Spike. "I'm full, luv. Can't eat any more, see?" He opened up the Hershey's bar. "Eat this while I bandage up your arm."

She didn't take the chocolate. "You're full?" she asked.

"Yeah, and that's no cotton candy in those veins. That's the hard stuff. Willy'd make a nice quid or two if you bottled it." He licked the remaining blood from his lips. "Not that I'd advise it, 'cos he'd probably try to rip you off. Eat that chocolate, now."

Gently, he held the gauze pads on the wound, and fastened it with surgical tape. Dawn watched intently and finally ate her chocolate. She was very pale, which Spike noticed with concern. If he had to take the little bit to the hospital for bleeding herself into a coma while the Slayerettes were out they would probably take him on a rather permanent trip to the beach. He finished, and patted it lightly. "Feelin' alright, pet?"

Dawn grinned. "I feel real." Her expression changed suddenly. "I feel sick."

A few dry heaves over the upstairs toilet later, she leaned against Spike's chest. "Let's get you to bed, luv," he advised. She just nodded, face still buried in his shirt, and he half led, half carried her across the hall, and lifted her into bed. He pushed her legs aside, then sat by her on the bed's edge.

Spike held still as she touched his face with the very tips of her fingers, then touched her own; she stared at her fingers, as if to wonder whose they were. While she stared he leaned towards her. "Little bit," he said, "you're as real as they come. You filled me up just like all the other thousands of people I've made my supper." He took her hand. "This" –he displayed it- "is real, and don't you ever doubt it and do something like get a vampire to drain you again." He pulled his face into a vampire grimace and concluded, "If you do, nibblet, I'll eat you."

Dawn giggled softly. "Okay, Spike."

He stood, and walked towards the door. "Spike?" called Dawn. Spike didn't look back at her, but she continued anyway: "Thanks."

"You're welcome, love," he replied.

Once downstairs, he shuffled through the refrigerator one last time, hoping it had decided to get with the microwave and conceive chicken wings. To his very great astonishment, it had. He pulled them out, slammed them into the microwave, and stood, looking at the buttons, trying to figure out how long to cook them for when he realized something. "Oh, bollocks," he muttered, and replaced the wings in the fridge.

He was just too full to eat.


End file.
